


Different Kinds of Hurt

by TopHat



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/M, Hero AU, Hurt/Comfort, Joking to cover the pain, Learning to be a hero, Original Character(s), So Many Goddamn Puns, Trash Ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHat/pseuds/TopHat
Summary: This is a trash ship in so many ways, but because a friend of mine pointed out that Jack's first instinct after killing King was to turn himself in I can't shake the feeling that he could've been good. As a result I've shipped him with the other character from Worm with a flair for the dramatic, who he murdered and tortured after death in canon. I recognize that this is probably wrong, but the character dynamic is interesting to consider.
Relationships: Mouse Protector/Jacob | Jack Slash
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**12, 1987**  
  
“You think he’s dead?” Harbinger asks, panting lightly.  
  
I eye up the ragged corpse of King, panting heavily. Two hundred plus pounds and more than six feet of psychopathic egomaniac lies spread out over the sidewalk. Well, maybe less than two hundred pounds. There’s a lot of blood on the ground, some organs where I slashed open his stomach, a few gouges from where Harbinger when berserk with a claw hammer...  
  
Maybe this was overkill. He didn’t seem very responsive after the stab to the brain.  
  
On the other hand, cutting him up without my power felt _really_ satisfying.  
  
“Yeah,” I manage in between breaths. “I think we got him.”  
  
“You killed King,” Screamer whispers. I take one last deep breath, trying to tone down the hammering of my heart, putting on a smile.  
  
Now for the hard part.  
  
“I did,” I say, smiling at the empty air in front of me. “And now that we are leaderless, I think it’s a good idea to hold an election. Isn’t that right Harbinger?” I turn to the cowled boy. He looks at me, unreadable behind his mask. I look back to the empty space. “He says yes,” I explain.  
  
“You can’t escape me. Psychosoma, Crimson, Gray Boy, Nyx, they won’t let this-”  
  
“Psychosoma wants to cause chaos, Crimson wants to leech people, and none of you can do shit to Gray Boy,” I interrupt, a carefully calculated note of irritation seeping into my voice. Act like you have the power and you do. Never let them know you’re bluffing. “Breed doesn’t care about anything other than his monsters, and Nyx basically just wants to be terrifying in the most economical way possible. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of running all the time. Harbinger and I are going to abstain from the vote and be on our merry way. Please, tell the rest of the Nine that we’ll be willing to wait a whole hour if any of them want to join us. Now if you’ll excuse me,” I finish, walking down the street with a confidence I don’t feel, “I need to get some new clothes. These ones are covered in dead idiot.”  
  
For a second I don’t know if I pulled it off. My shoes _squelch_ lightly against the ground and my heart hammers in my throat, nearly cutting off my air. Screamer can’t hurt me from this distance, but she could tell Gray Boy where we are.  
  
That would be bad.  
  
After a silence that’s far too long, I hear a dismissive snort and the only thing in my ears is the world around me. Slowly, oh so slowly, I let out a breath, letting my shoulders sag as relief washes over me.  
  
Hard part over.  
  
Another pair of feet pick up behind me, slightly faster. Eventually Harbinger makes it to my side, standing in his animal mask like the world’s smallest gargoyle.  
  
“That went well,” he says noncommittally.  
  
I yawn theatrically. “This is step one. Getting free.” I wipe my knife off as best I can with my shirt, then examine it in the glow of the street lamps. Nope. Still dirty. “Now we need to actually figure out what to do besides wander around killing people.”  
  


* * *

  
  
**14, 1989**  
  
A sigh escapes me, fueled by barely-restrained irritation and exhaustion. “Hello, officer,” I drawl. “How are you doing tonight?”  
  
“You have no idea how much shit you’re in,” the woman says, glaring at me from across the table. It might be more intimidating if she had actual power, rather than a combination of bestowed authority and fancy gadgets. “Two men are crippled because of you. If the ambulance had been a minute later, one would be dead.”  
  
“And what a shame that would be,” I reply, the words too sweet to ever be interpreted as genuine. “I mean, the bank tellers certainly seemed eager to help out those fine, upstanding members of the community.” Police governing capes as a concept is stupid. A group of humans, who by definition are admitting that they’re not up to the task alone, trying to tell demigods what to do? I mean, it’s a good joke, but against any reasonably well organized group of capes you’re going to need more than guns, training, and a heart of gold. “Let’s skip this whole Bad Cop routine, the ensuing offer of a foster home, and get straight to the part where you let me go. Some money for my trouble would also be nice,” I add, flashing her a grin.  
  
The officer’s face goes red, fists bunching up in her gauntlets, and I almost think her head is going to pop like a balloon filled with blood. That, or she’s going to hit me. Either way would be a net win, but I’d really rather not pick up another bruise. I tense against the table, ready to throw myself back-  
  
“I’ll take it from here,” a voice says, gentle but firm, like steel wrapped in well-worn cloth. The officer twists around in her seat, while I flick my gaze over her shoulder far more sedately.  
  
The new person is old. Really old. Already balding, with more than a few wrinkles and a looseness around his neck that tells me he’s probably not in the field for his ability to run laps. He’s in plainclothes, with a badge hanging out over his chest.  
  
Old Cop nods once at the officer and makes a small gesture towards the door. “Might as well get started on that paperwork,” he says, face set but not angry.  
  
The female officer gives me one last glare, then pushes away from the table aggressively and stomps out of the room, too disciplined to slam the door behind her. Old Cop watches said door for a solid ten seconds, then shakes his head. “Need to transfer her somewhere with more action,” he mutters to himself, taking her seat across from me. “Too calm here for such hot blood.”  
  
“Again, I know the Good Cop/Bad Cop act,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You can drop the facade.” I start feeling my vest in the vain hope that they missed a blade when they frisked me. No luck. Say what you will about the uselessness of regular police, they know how to search a guy.  
  
“Looking for one of these?” Old Cop arches his eyebrows and holds up a pocket knife. My pocket knife, actually, the one I stole from a gift shop in El Paso, not to be confused with the one that I used to cut people up. You never want to prepare food with a blade that’s been in someone’s body. It’s missing its sixteen other friends but I still feel myself relax fractionally upon seeing it, even if it’s not in my hands. Something familiar, friendly, tactile.  
  
Old Cop puts the small red object on the table, then slides it across, metal hissing against metal as it comes to a stop.  
  
I look at the tool, then to him.  
  
No way he’s this stupid.  
  
Old Cop motions to it, eyes guileless. “Killing me won’t get you out of here, and you seem jittery enough. No sense in keeping all that energy pent up.”  
  
I roll my eyes and grab the knife, flicking open the corkscrew. The parallels between the female officer and I are obvious enough that it _has_ to be staged, and I’ll give the attempt at trickery all the respect it deserves. “Thanks,” I say. “When can I expect the rest of them back?” I start cleaning my nails, digging out dirt and dried blood, not even bothering to use my power.  
  
“A lot those knives aren’t legal here.” Old Cop shakes his head slowly, like he’s actually sorry to take them away from me. “We’re not going to make a deal of it, but we can’t let you wander around with them.” In other words, we can’t arrest you for having them, but we can sure as hell take them away from you.  
  
“If a Tinker dropped in and blew off their limbs with a laser gun you’d let them off with a warning and a recruitment offer. Not that I want the recruitment offer,” I clarify, holding up my free hand and examining the work on my thumb nail. “I just want to point out how arbitrary the definitions you’ve set up are.” Good enough for now. I move onto my index finger.  
  
“Law’s the law, and even if I agree I can’t change it.” Old Cop shrugs and pulls a small brown envelope out of his jacket. “I turned them in on bounty for you, though. Worth a bit of cash. I threw in some of the change we leave in the kitty for hiring Clear Sky, total comes to close to five hundred dollars. Consider it a thank you.”  
  
I eye the envelope warily. Five hundred dollars is a lot of supermarket sushi, more if I look around in the other aisles for bargains. The stores don’t like it when capes come in, but my money spends the same as anyone else’s and they mostly let me grab what I want. It helps that I’ve grown out of looking like Jacob in the two years since King’s death, and people’s first thought when they see a lanky teenager buying groceries isn’t ‘ex-serial killer’. I still haven’t figured out a good real name though, and the name ‘Edge’ is hardly something I want to stick with me.  
  
“You want me gone,” I guess.  
  
Old Cop sighs, folding his hands together over the table. “I don’t want you gone. I want you to find a nice place to settle down, some people to talk to, and when you’re a little older maybe come by and think about working for the law. Other people want the town quiet again, and having a cape cutting people up don’t help with that.”  
  
“Maintain the status quo.” I can’t even muster up the energy to be angry, honestly. It’s just so typical at this point that I shrug and go along with it. A grin I don’t really feel crawls up onto my face and I sit up in my chair, hiding behind the showmanship. “Well, if you pass me that envelope I can be on a bus and out of your hair in less than a day.” Not here even a week and I’m moving again. Shame. I only just figured out where the best places to sleep are.  
  
Sometimes I hate being homeless.  
  
“I mean it,” Old Cop says, and I almost think he’s genuinely sad. “I don’t know a whole lot, but I can put together some newspaper clippings and connect the dots. You got a shit hand, Jacob.” I fold the corkscrew back down and meet his gaze, still smiling. “Listen, if you want a hot meal after this, I can get you one. No obligations, no commitment, just a few minutes to talk-”  
  
“I think you’ve held me for about as long as you’re legally able to without pressing charges,” I interrupt, dropping the pocket knife into my vest pocket, fingers jittering with the urge to do something I know I’d regret. “Mind letting me out know?”  
  
For a long moment the silence stretches on.  
  
Then Old Cop releases a breath, breaking eye contact and shaking his head as he pushes the packet of money across the table. “Figured I’d ask.” His voice is quiet, defeated, like a boxer after a point loss.  
  
I pick up the envelope and count the money. Once I confirm it’s all there, I stand up. Old Cop escorts me out of the building, returns my bag of essentials, and points me in the direction of the nearest Greyhound station. The ticket to Chicago is cheap, and as we get under way I settle in for a nap, trying not to think about how cold it can get on the near-empty roads.  
  


* * *

  
  
**17, 1992**  
  
“It’s one guy,” I stress, flipping the blade over my knuckles, imagining the potential pleasure of cutting open this bullish police sergeant's face, his near-purple hue paling as crimson flows out of him. “Two moves. One to break the window, one to disable the man with the gun, and then you can barge in guns blazing. Simple.” The mental image of murder is the only thing keeping the majority of his blood inside his body.  
  
“I’ve never fucking heard of you until today,” Sergeant Rolly growls, still refusing to look at me, screwing the binoculars into his face hard enough that I can’t imagine he can actually see anything. “I’m not about to let you try to throw a knife through a hole that a SWAT sniper couldn’t hit.”  
  
“I don’t throw knives, I project the edges,” I repeat for what must be the fiftieth time, smile wearing eggshell thin. “Invisible, unlimited range, and accurate enough that I can cut bugs out of the air. Slicing off a finger-”  
  
“You’re talking about cutting off fingers now?” Sergeant Rolly shouts, turning to face me, flecks of spittle flying up to my face. “Listen boy, I don’t know what hellhole you came out of, but around here we don’t just go cutting up any damn person who tries anything! You freaks always go straight for the kill, for the most violent option! Why I oughtta-”  
  
“Now what’s this about?”  
  
I turn towards the source of the interruption, incipient slice across the officer’s throat aborted by the sudden noise. A girl, fifteen at oldest and certainly not out of high school with a sword strapped to her side and a shield under her arm. Her identity is concealed by a vaguely Roman helmet, a pair of mouse ears Velcro'd on.  
  
“Surely the police aren’t antagonizing the parahuman that only wants to help? That would be just terrible, especially when a Ward and her Protectorate escort have just shown up to help.” She lifts her head and points, directing both of our gazes up.  
  
A man in blue and white floats above us. His form is sculpted, Olympian, and he’s wearing an expression somewhere between disappointed and impassive.  
  
Legend.  
  
“Hi.” The word lacks anything besides a cool professionalism. A perfectly understated greeting from a god.  
  
“Hello.” Sergeant Rolly is equally frosty, but he’s not cussing. A sight better than the greeting I got. “I don’t suppose you’re here to help solve the hostage crisis?”  
  
“I was in the neighborhood,” Legend answers, drifting down to stand besides us. It’s startling how tall he is, looming at least a few inches over me and a full head over the Sergeant. One of those things you don’t notice when someone flies everywhere. “Give me the details.”  
  
“One man with a machine gun, holding his family hostage.” The facts are dead, lifeless from the Sergeant’s mouth, a quiet loathing. “Visible from a third floor window, backup gun in his jeans, wants money and a ride to the location of his choosing. Negotiator’s been keeping him talking about the model of car he wants and how much money he can get while we wait for someone to approve a course of action.” While they wait for a human sniper to get here while I could just as easily solve the problem on my own. I hold my tongue.  
  
It’s not every day you get to see one of the Big Four in action.  
  
“No other complications? No dead man’s switch?” Legend tilts his head slightly, lifting one arm to point at the window in question.  
  
“None we can see, but don’t do anything, the situation-”  
  
The window shatters and someone screams. Then silence as half a dozen officers turn to look at the man beside me  
  
“Gunman is down. Invisible shocking beam,” Legend states simply, seemingly unaffected by the attention. “Both weapons disabled by cutting lasers. It should be safe to secure the hostages and gunman now.”  
  
“You- you-” Sergeant Rolly sputters, neck growing red.  
  
“Saved the day again!” the girl with the weapons says, punching the air, a tiny amount of boredom in the motion. “Now what?”  
  
“Now we ask the parahuman on-site to talk.” I look towards the man in blue, eyes rising behind the Zorro mask. He waves his hand, a small smile on his face, going from regal to friendly in a heartbeat. “Nothing bad. We just try to check in with the independents from time to time, see how they’re doing. No recruitment if you don’t want it, and a free meal regardless of how the conversation goes.”  
  
I open my mouth to disagree. To tell them that I could’ve done the same thing he did, faster, if the police Sergeant hadn’t gotten in my way. That I don’t need charity.  
  
A horrible gurgling noise echoes up from my stomach. Then a second. Legend’s face remains static, but the armed girl laughs, a high pitched giggle that leaves her nearly bent over as she struggles to catch her breath.  
  
My complaints die in my throat, along with my pride.  
  
“I’d like that meal.”  
  


* * *

  
  
**19, 1994**  
  
I hate myself.  
  
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I deadpan, pointing my knife lazily at the mugger. “I’m trying to be knife here, so I’ll ask you to drop the gun. You seem like a sharp woman. Take the offer.” The alleyway is amazingly clean for New York city, with only one overflowing dumpster obscuring sight of the crime. Probably would've missed it without my eye in the sky.  
  
“Fuck off!” the mugger says, pointing the gun at me. “Unless you’re bulletproof, fuck off!” Her hand is shaking enough that I give her even odds of dropping it if she actually pulls the trigger, and less than one in ten she actually hits me. Still, better safe than sorry.  
  
“I shank you for your consideration, but I must insist that you drop the weapon. It’s been a long week.” I sigh, rubbing my temple with my other hand. “And what if I am bulletproof? What would you do then? Waste bullets and upgrade your charge from attempted robbery to assault with intent? Can’t you just surrender?” Negotiations, always with the negotiations. Better than switching cities every two weeks, but damn if it isn’t a pain.  
  
“Booo! More puns!” The mugger’s gaze shoots up, then back to me. I slowly turn, keeping the gun in view. At the edge of the roof is Mouse Protector, an actual bag of popcorn in her hands. “You promised!”  
  
“Mouse, there is only so much stupid I can process in one day,” I state, narrowing my eyes at her. “I don’t see the point, and the next time you make me do it I’m leaving for Tijuana.” Apparently if you’re a cape in South America, you can slaughter government officials by the score and be called a folk hero. Plane tickets are expensive to nonexistent, worse for parahumans, but depending on the number of shitty puns that I have to deal with it might be worth walking there.  
  
“Jokes improve morale, silly. You’ve got to build those people skills independents so desperately need.” She talks to me like she’d talk to a small child, full of cheer and innocent happiness. I’d be insulted if she didn’t speak exactly the same way to everyone. “It’s working, too! You just punned unconsciously! Soon it will be in your dreams,” she mock whispers. “That’s when the fun starts.”  
  
I think about my words for a second, replaying the conversation as a growing sense of dread comes over me.  
  
I’ve been infected.  
  
“What the fuck is with you two?” the mugger whispers, bringing my eyes back to her. Right. The crime. The one we’re supposed to be stopping.  
  
I am really bad at this.  
  
“Language!” Mouse says, throwing a piece of popcorn down at the mugger. The mugger flinches but doesn’t shoot, switching her aim between me and Mouse every few seconds. “There are children around!”  
  
“Mouse, the only child is you.” I pause, then glance for the girl on the ground. “How old are you, actually?” She’s dressed in clubbing clothes, ripped up and lose, exposing more skin than it covers. I can see her bra under a fishnet top, and her jeans are more hole than denim.  
  
The girl blinks once. “I plead the fifth.”  
  
I look up to Mouse. “Underage drinking?”  
  
Mouse nods. “Mouslings shouldn’t, but since when have mouslings done what they’re supposed to?” Rich coming from a girl who’s only barely old enough to buy cigarettes, but she’s technically Protectorate now.  
  
“Okay, what the fuck-”  
  
There’s a _pop_ and suddenly Mouse is behind the mugger. There’s a brief flash of limbs, then the mugger is on the ground, gun falling from splayed fingers as Mouse puts her in a submission hold.  
  
“Be a dear and call the coppers, would you Edge?” Mouse says, still smiling as she holds the woman still. “If I don’t hear at least three puns in the report, I’m resetting the challenge.”  
  
I return my knife to its sheath with a small flourish, then pull out a phone and hold the speed dial. “Have you ever considered that maybe some people don’t like camp humor?” I try. “Maybe I could do slapstick. Or stand up. Or literally anything else. Maybe I’m not cut out for it.”  
  
“That’s the spirit!” Mouse says. I pause, then sigh. It really is becoming unconscious.  
  
“You see what I have to put up with?” I ask the girl, giving her my most pitiful look. “She bullies me, takes me to the sketchy parts of town, then tells me to call other people. Really, Mouse is the worst.”  
  
“Oh shush, you know you love it,” Mouse snarks back, the grin in her voice audible. “If I don’t pop your ego every few minutes, who will?”  
  
The phone picks up. “PRT hotline, what’s your emergency?”  
  
“Let’s cut to the chase. I’d like to get things sworded before my evening becomes any more dull.” The words taste like ash as they leave my mouth, and I close my eyes, mourning the loss of my dignity.  
  
“Boo! You already used the first one!” Mouse jeers. “Penalty limerick!”  
  
“You’re working with Mouse Protector then. What have you two caught?” the receptionist says, keys clacking audibly over the line. Mercifully, he doesn’t comment on the abuse of language.  
  
“A mugger, located in an alleyway between Ninety-Second and Ninety-third, on Ellison Street. Edge is on-scene with her, taking partial credit for the take down.” I add the bounty for the night to my mental ledger and wince. Still a little short on rent, but I have another week to catch something, maybe take a bet or two on IndieRanker.  
  
“The funds will be transferred to your account and a cruiser is on its way.” The call cuts off and I put away the phone, yawning. Indie life is hard, even if you have a contact inside the system. Lots of long nights, a few early mornings, and barely enough food to make it worthwhile, and that’s counting the good behavior stipend the PRT hands out to every unaffiliated non-villain who asks for it.  
  
“Police will be here soon. Just have to sit around a hang tight,” I say, glancing at the girl. “Chances are they’ll want a statement from you as well, so I’m going to have to ask you to stick around.”  
  
“Want to grab a slice after this?” Mouse asks. I give her a dead look. She shrugs, maintaining the lock on the mugger. “I’m hungry.”  
  
“If you pay, I will consent to visiting a place that sells pizza for the purpose of eating,” I answer, examining my words for possible double entendres. No more. Not tonight.  
  
“Are you two guys an item?” My head snaps around fast enough that my mask almost falls off.  
  
“What, no, of course not-”  
  
“We fuck every night,” Mouse says cheerily.  
  
I give her a long-suffering look. She gives me a smile back.  
  
The distant whine of sirens breaks the deadlock and I tear my eyes away. “Police are here. Let’s talk to them.”  
  
“And then our date,” Mouse says sternly. “Don’t leave a girl hanging.”  
  
I sigh again. “And the meal we are going to share that you will be paying for.”  
  
“Woot, feminism!” Mouse hollers. “Girl paying for the meal! Fight the power, Edge!”  
  
I drop my head into my hands as the cruiser comes around the corner.  
  
Why do I agree to this?  
  


* * *

  
  
**22, 1997**  
  
“Hey.” Mouse has her helmet off, a domino mask keeping her face covered enough to protect it from casual observers. She’s also sitting, a rarity.  
  
“Hey.” I slump into the seat next to her. I returned the fancy knives that the Tinkers only let me use during Endbringer fights, so now all that’s left to do is the clean up. That, and shower, but I’m waiting until I get back home to do that.  
  
We both just enjoy the silence for a minute.  
  
“You’ve gone indie now,” I start.  
  
“How’d you know?” she asks. “Sniff me out?”  
  
“Saw you on the leaderboards,” I answer. “You’ve got absurd fan engagement and a terrible ranking.” I’m not surprised that Mouse left the establishment, but I am surprised she decided to stay in New York. We’re both small fry there, and if either of us went to a smaller city we could probably do a lot better.  
  
“The what nows?” she ask, tilting her head. I sigh.  
  
“People rate indie heroes, then throw money at them based on their position. It’s sketchy as fuck and taxed straight to hell, but it’s a nice little bonus at the end of the month.” You can ‘improve’ your ranking a whole lot of ways that don’t have anything to do with heroing, but I haven’t gotten hungry enough yet. “I’ll show you how to set up an account later.”  
  
“Thanks,” she says. “Might be nice to have a little extra cheddar in my pocket.”  
  
I turn and look at her.  
  
She’s smiling.  
  
Normally, I take Mouse’s puns in stride, act more offended than I feel, and hide the few smiles she can draw out of me. Can't have the straight man breaking out into laughter, after all. It's all in good fun, and we play off one another to relieve stress and make the nights a little brighter.  
  
This time I feel something that isn’t amusement unstick itself from my bones. Something rotten and nauseous and so unbelievably _vile_ that I have to let it out or else it’ll corrode me from the inside out, leaving behind an empty flap of skin to rustle in the wind.  
  
“How do you do it?”  
  
Mouse doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, when two people love each other very much-”  
  
“You know what I mean,” I snarl. I don’t bother with a filter, with a word game. I don’t think. “How do you keep joking when you go to one of these every few months? How do you fight something that regularly slaps around the Triumvirate with a fucking pointy stick? Why do you bother bailing out a sinking ship and manage to make it look like you’re enjoying yourself? Why do you crack fucking jokes while you beat the shit out of human traffickers? How do you walk past a corpse crisped from the inside out and make a fucking pun when the taste of pork fills your nose and-”  
  
I cut myself off, dropping forward, elbows resting on my knees. Penitent.  
  
“How do you not just snap from the sheer fucking pointlessness of it all?” I whisper.  
  
Just.  
  
Fuck.  
  
For a long while, Mouse doesn’t respond.  
  
“I get up at seven every morning. That’s how I start.” There’s a pressure on my back, right between my shoulder blades, and I almost sit up. Almost. “I try to make jokes because it forces me think about my words, to double-check them for something that might hurt someone unintentionally.” She starts rubbing circles, slowly draining the tension from my back. “I fight with a pointy stick because when I fought with a baseball bat someone died. I try to look like I’m having fun because sometimes the lie becomes the truth, and a lot of the time it is actually fun. Remember that one fight with the Bear Clan? The one where we dropped a chandelier on them?” I don’t respond, even as the memory surfaces.  
  
I can’t think past watching a woman simply fall over dead when she took one step too far.  
  
Mouse sighs. “I keep laughing because the alternative is to stop and I don’t want to stop laughing.” She pulls me to the side, placing my head in her lap so I can look up at her. It’s not very comfortable. She has a battle-kilt on, and the armor plates dig into the back of my head. I stay as still as I can, in new, uncharted territory, terror sending my heart to new highs.  
  
Slowly, she reaches up and removes her mask. She doesn’t look like Mouse without it. Instead, she looks like any other woman, still youthful, but with a steel to her features that speaks of trauma and recovery.  
  
“I don’t think it’s pointless,” she whispers, gently running her fingers through my hair. “I really, really don’t think it is. I think a few more people lived rather than died because I was here.”  
  
I swallow, trying to wet my throat. I run my tongue around my mouth, blink my eyes clear, clench and unclench my jaw, all in an effort to remain still. A knot unravels in my chest, letting free something warm and liquid that drips into my limbs, sending them shaking. No a lot, not enough to dislodge me, but enough to notice.  
  
“Mouse-”  
  
“Karrin,” she interrupts, fingers still sorting through my hair, playing with the strands, while her eyes remain locked on mine. “My name is Karrin.”  
  
I open my mouth to respond. Nothing comes out. I try again. Wordless wheezing.  
  
The burning in my eyes gets worse.  
  
“Relax.” Mouse, no, _Karrin_ , pats me twice on the head, a gentle smile blooming across her features. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut, hands clenched in terror, and let her slowly, oh so slowly, braid my hair.  
  


* * *

  
  
**25, 1999**  
  
“Ahoy, scallywags! What mischief ye be up to tonight?” I shout, waving at a trio of men in balaclavas currently shoveling cash from an ATM into a duffle bag. Smile wide, make a big gesture, and no one thinks to look at your other hand. Add in a short cape, a flair for the dramatic (heh), and a horrible Johnny Depp impression and you’d be surprised at the number of people who will straight up forget that you once fought half a dozen powered members of the Teeth, including the Butcher, and ended up on top.  
  
That’s a good thing, by the way.  
  
“Fuck him up!” one of the gangbangers shouts, dragging a pistol out of his waistband. I duck behind a Mercedes as they start unloading at me, filling the air with hot metal and loud noise. Well, that’s certainly illegal discharge of weapons, reckless endangerment of the public, property damage, larceny, and maybe attempted murder. I mean, with the number of times people have ‘attempted’ to murder me and failed hilariously, I think that one’s probably not going to stick, but might as well give it a shot.  
  
Heh. Shot. Gonna have to tell that to Karrin later.  
  
“Drop yer pistols and prepare for a thrashin’, ye scurvy-ridden sons of whores!” I shout, flipping a knife in one hand. “Jack Slash is out for a fight tonight!” Very important that I identify myself. One lawsuit over mistaken identity is more than enough, even if I did win in the end. Aleph was not pleased to learn about accidental intellectual property infringement, even if I am single handedly reinvigorating interest in pirate films. Also, that was their last chance to lay on the ground and make this easy.  
  
“Grab the money and run!” Looks like we’re doing this the hard way, then. I drop low to the ground, look under the car, and make out three pairs of feet, shoe’d by Converses, Osiris, and Nike. Idiots, bringing sneakers to what is clearly a boots situation. Six quick swipes and their laces are all severed, and the attempts to flee quickly dissolve into kicking off the suddenly less-than-useful footwear, the gunfire dropping off as they run out of ammo and focus on their feet. I stand back up, a second knife magicking out of my sleeve, and set to cutting belts, duffle bag straps, waistbands, and shirts. Soon the goons are on the ground, struggling to pull their pants up and keep their shirts closed. Pride, thou art the single greatest weakness of any man. Some call it ‘depriving people of dignity’ or ‘public indecency’, but I prefer to think of it as ‘tactically induced nudity’. Sounds much cooler that way.  
  
I amble over towards them, making the blade dance over my fingers.  
  
“Alas, ye sprogs have run afoul of one of the Port of York’s more dangerous buccaneers,” I drawl, dragging out my approach as long as I can. “Mighty bad luck, but now’s the time fer you ta prepare yerselves for the brig.” One of the thugs reaches for his fallen pistol, stopping short when I project the blade into the street between his hand and the gun, the sound of telekinesis on pavement setting everyone else’s hairs on end. He freezes, and I shake my head slowly, still smiling, still making the blades dance. “‘Less you want to be missin’ a few fingers when the privateers show up, might be best ta focus on keeping your trousers ‘round yer waist.”  
  
“Yo ho ho and all that nonsense! What bootyful bounties did I miss out on this time?” I look up and back, idly sending another pair of scratches across the ground near the thugs who haven't yet reached for their fallen guns. Silhouetted against the moonlight I see the now-familiar outline of ears and a battle dress, standing with her fists on her hips and her face cast in shadow.  
  
“Aye see what you did there lass, but ye don’t have to worry ‘bout naught,” I shout back, warmth seeping into my smile as the knives come to a halt. “Just a few miscreants wantin’ an easy mark on New Year’s. They only be worth a few doubloons.” Living with Karrin was maybe the smartest thing I’ve ever committed to, if for no other reason than it halved the amount of rent I had to pay.  
  
“Still, I think this brings your plunder above mine,” Karrin shoots back, throwing her shield up into the air. I track it with my eyes, a golden arc cutting down through the air, until she _pops_ out next to it, snatching the shining circle and returning it to its place under her arm. “Can’t have you rumming away with the lead.”  
  
“Maybe ye can convince me to rum the lead back,” I counter, sheathing one of the knives. “‘Tis be a night for merriment, no? A night to pray to grog, load ourselves to the gunwales, and ye can’t have such a celebration without a hint of gold.”  
  
Karrin laughs as the police cruisers come around the corner. “Lock these landlubbers up and I’ll hold you to it, sailor.” She _pops_ away, leaving me with the police. I sheath the second knife as the officers come out of the car, grin growing far more stupid than cocky as I as think about the future.  
  


* * *

  
  
**26, 2000 (later that night)**  
  
“What’s your New Year’s resolution, Jack?” Karrin asks, pulling a brush through her hair, gazing thoughtfully into the mirror. Two sinks is a luxury, but one we agreed on early. Neither of us wanted to mix up our razors, and a larger bathroom means more space for dressing wounds if (when) things go bad on patrol. The double bath, power shower, and easy storage of our respective hygiene products is a nice bonus.  
  
I mull over the thought, blade pausing momentarily as I examine our reflections. A man, a woman, both fit, (reasonably) attractive twenty-somethings, dressed in functional underwear. Probably not the most uncommon thing in a New York apartment on New Year’s night. I shrug, removing a few more hairs from the sawtooth cut on my jaw. “Try to be better, more considerate. Try to be nicer to people who aren’t where they want to be and help them get to a better place. Learn something about hostage negotiation, step back on the amount of force I use.” I nod once, setting down the blade, then pick up a warm washcloth and start patting at my face with it. “You?”  
  
“Work with kids more,” she says, leaning down to the faucet and drinking straight from the tap. She gargles for a moment, swishes, then spits back into the sink. “Maybe do some night school. Not a full degree, but it might be nice to know something about how to make children laugh. Also do some more reading.”  
  
“You do both plenty,” I assure her, giving my face one last wash before I toss the cloth to the side. “Might I suggest picking something that, you know, would actually change you for the better?” I smile at her in the mirror, sapping the jab of any malice.  
  
“And maybe you should think of something original, hack.” Karrin meets my gaze, raising an eyebrow. “Now, what do you promise to do? No repeats of last year.”  
  
“Hmm.” I turn to the side and pull Karrin into a hug, one quickly reciprocated. “You?”  
  
She _pops_ out of my arms and a new weight settles on my shoulders, nearly pulling me to the ground. “I said no repeats! Come on, there’s got to be something you want,” she growls playfully, wrapping her legs around my waist and and arm around my neck, a mock choke hold that could go real any second. “What do you want out of life?” she asks loftily, ruining the effect by giving me a noogie as I stumble into the bedroom, towards the unmade sheets and scattered pillows. “What dream do you aspire to? What heights might you jump to? The world’s a stage, and we’re all but players upon it. What play do you want to put on, oh villainous knave?”  
  
“Don’t you quote Shakespeare at me,” I snark, falling backwards with a smile on my face. Karrin _pops_ midway into my descent, reappearing in front of me and pinning me to the mattress, a toothy grin highlighting incipient laugh lines. “Flattery will get you everywhere though,” I add, jerking my chin at her, challenging. “Go on, why don’t you?  
  
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” she starts, quirking an eyebrow. “Thou art more lovely and more tumultuous, for your rough winds” – Karrin grinds her hips into mine, something sharper, _hotter_ , leaking into her gaze – “shake the darling buds of May, and give their flowers much-needed-”  
  
I lean up, catching the words with a kiss. Karrin kisses back, pressing me down into the bed and lacing her fingers through mine, spreading our arms up above our heads. When she breaks off, it's with a pull at my lower lip, more than a little bit rough, panting a little and staring at me, forceful, dominant, _joyful_.  
  
“Sometimes too hot your eyes decide to shine, complexion dimmed, by thought’s course or by some false sign. Sometime fair from fair will fade, thine eyes gone dark with age, thy skin left wretched with wounds.” One of her hands wanders down while the other keeps my arms pinned. I struggle a little bit, enough to throw any normal human off, enough to keep it interesting. Karrin wriggles closer, tighter, warmer.  
  
“But thy eternal will remain, maintain possession of thy fairness, for Death himself would not dare to love thy passing. So long as I live with breath to breathe and lips to smile” – she hisses as I nip down on her shoulder, the only thing I can reach, then kiss, savoring the little shudder I feel run through her legs — “so long live I, I give life to thee.”  
  
“I didn’t know you were a poet,” I murmur before going back to kissing her neck, searching for the next untouched space, somewhere waiting for affirmation, the next place of warmth that I _know_ makes her toes curl.  
  
Karrin growls, nails raking down my chest and raising lines of heat, slowly becoming gentle as it descends. “It’s all the same shit, Jack. Puns, poetry, PR, showmanship, fighting, fucking. And I think,” she whispers, hand finally reaching its goal, “that you and I might just be the two people who get it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one has more OC's.

I hiss as I fuck up my shield throw and trip over the lip of the building. My limbs snap into motion, a barely conscious reaction, and the spill turns into a roll, arms and legs kicking off the side of the building, a fire escape, a window sill, angling me towards the horribly-full dumpster. My fall is exactly long enough to give me the time necessary to pray that I’m about to crash into a few weeks of rotten food and not someone’s old furniture, a wish that gets answered immediately as I touchdown through garbage bags filled with old pizza, melted ice cream, moldy leftovers, and what I’m pretty sure is the remains of someone’s mattress.  
  
For a second, I stay there, panting among the trash, contemplating just how low I’ve sunk.  
  
Then I grit my teeth and pick myself back up, one limb at a time, pulling myself out of the dumpster and into the dead-end alley. Okay, if I teleport to my shield, toss it real fast, and get back to running, maybe I can-  
  
“Looking for something?”  
  
Slowly, I lift my head. Michelle - _no, Ravager, she lost the right to have a normal-person name when she left Eli to_ ** _rot_** \- Ravager is looking down on me. She lifts my shield, then casually snaps it between her claws. I feel the tag on it expire, the last one I have left.  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Whoops,” she says. I’ve seen more emotion in the animatronics at game parlors than I hear in her voice. “My fingers slipped.”  
  
“That happens from time to time,” I say, mind racing. “I hear clipping your nails helps when you’re trying work down there, if you get my drift. Mind, a partner would probably be best, but I don’t think you’d know about how _that_ works-”  
  
“You’re dead, Mouse,” Ravager says, calmly, quietly, _just like she always does_ , and gently hops off the side of the building, tanking the thirty foot fall like it’s nothing and cutting off my very last escape route. “You could never take me in a straight up fight before we got powers. That’s why you mouthed off. You tried to laugh because you couldn’t hit back.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say I can’t hit back. Say how _is_ your shoulder, by the way?” I draw my backup backup-knife, running a charge through the blade. I have no idea how she managed to find all of my anchors, but apparently whoever she hired to do it is staying out of the fight. Makes sense, she always liked that _personal touch_. “If you want to run away now, I might only stab you a little,” I add, smiling to hide the pain as I lift my arms into a fighting stance. Normally, I disengage before Ravager’s fester has enough time to set in. Now I’m remembering why. “It’s the cornered rats that are the most dangerous.”  
  
Ravager just raises her own claws, her mask of blades as unreadable as ever. I edge forward, getting ready to flip my knife around so I can toss it, try to get another chance to run, find some place to go to ground-  
  
“Hey, crazy bitch!”  
  
I flick my gaze over Ravager’s shoulder, even as she rotates, keeping me in her peripheral vision as she looks towards the alleyway entrance. “Which one?” I ask, appraising our audience. A man, early twenties, poorly-shaven and dressed in a ragged dress shirt and pants he’s tied off with a piece of rope. His shoes are expensive but worn, more duct tape than leather, and his domino mask is stained with flecks of brown. The knife in his hand is clean though, and his smile has that shaky quality which makes me think of crackheads right before they pull the trigger.  
  
“Either or,” he answers, spinning the blade around his hand. It’s one of the flippy kinds, the sort that look really impressive to play with but aren’t that great at killing people. “Mainly just want to know-”  
  
“This doesn’t concern you,” Ravager interrupts. “If you wait outside this alleyway and stop anyone from interfering I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”  
  
The guys’ eyes go wide. “See, now I really want to know. ‘Cmon, I promise not to tell anyone.”  
  
“Pretty boring stuff, actually,” I say. My head is starting to swim, but I find it in me to smile at the slight twitch that runs through Ravager. Fuck you, bitch. “Just a jealous virgin chasing after tail she can’t have. Say, mind helping me murderate her?”  
  
“A thousand,” Ravager says. “And I’ll help you get set up with any parahuman group of your choice.”  
  
“I’ll pay you in merch,” I counter, tapping my helmet with my knife twice. “Worth way more than a grand to the serious collectors.”  
  
“Ten thousand, the introduction, and a favor,” Ravager says.  
  
“Woah, woah, woah,” Mr. Fancy Knife says, lifting his hands defensively. “First, you can’t just drop a bombshell like that and not explain it. Second, do I look like I want money?”  
  
“Yes,” Ravager says.  
  
“I absolutely can,” I answer, laughing a little too high to be interpreted as sane. “Lets just say it involved me, a hot stud of a man, and this jealous old biddy. Now, with the murdering?”  
  
The guy shrugs. “Sure.”  
  
Ravager raises a hand to her face as his hand blurs and something rings against her gauntlet. I run forward, roll under her swipe, then come up beside the mysterious masked guy.  
  
“Thank you, brave warrior of justice! Your assistance here will not go unrewarded!” I’m feeling pretty shit all things considered, woozy and weak and way too energetic in a really, _really_ bad way, but Ravager isn’t exactly unscathed herself either. She’s still not lifting her right arm, and I can make out a small pool of blood on the ground by her foot. Cripple versus cripple and a non-cripple are odds I like. “Now for round two!”  
  
Ravager lowers her gauntlet, staring at the two of us. Then she shrugs, crouches, and jumps _way_ up, tick-tacking off the walls until she disappears to the rooftops. I watch her go, smile still firmly in place.  
  
One of these days I’m going to pull her skull out of her head.  
  
Not fucking today, though.  
  
“So... mind telling me what that was about?” I turn to the guy standing next to me, who’s put away both of his knives. He’s not smiling anymore.  
  
I open my mouth to respond _oh hi blurry world how are you doing yes I would love a nap_ -  
  


* * *

  
  
When I wake up, I’m not at home.  
  
I sit up. Well, I try to sit up. What happens it that I level myself about forty five degrees away from horizontal and then the clawing across my body goes live and I remember why injured people are supposed to _stay still_ because oh god the pain. I hiss and lower myself back to the bed. Slowly. Once my insides are little more secure, I take in the room.  
  
It’s cheap. The sheets are rough, washed enough to be more than a little worn through, and I have one lousy pillow under my head. The walls are bare, the shelves are two-by-fours held about six inches off the ground by used paint cans, and a few bare bulbs hang above my head instead of proper lights. There’s a suitcase stuffed with unfolded clothes in the corner of the room, and there’s a trash can half-full of take out boxes in the otherwise-unused mini kitchen.  
  
Oh, and the weedy guy who saved my life last night is passed out on the floor.  
  
He still has his mask on, still dressed in a upper-crust clubbing outfit that’s seen better days, but his shoes are resting against the wall and I can hear him snoring from here. Now that things are a little less hectic, some of the smaller details make themselves known. His beard is patchy, but only the upper half. Either he’s growing it out or between shaves. His fingers are extraordinary scarred, almost more white than tan, but his knuckles are comparatively untouched. A high-risk profession outside of caping, maybe, and not a lot of fist fights.  
  
He also smells.  
  
I wrinkle my nose and try to sit up again. This time I’m not an idiot about it and go in stages, supporting myself with my arms and being very careful to _not_ pull at something. I still feel sore by the time I’ve got both feet flat on the floor, but it’s an ache I can manage, and more importantly an ache that tells me I’m on the mend. Looks like Knives the First actually cleaned the wounds. Lucky me.  
  
“You’re up.” My head snaps towards the voice, prompting another flash of pain in my neck and an accompanying hiss. Oh, look at me, my name is Ravager and when I stab people they stay stabbed, even when they have brute ratings. “Are you alright?” He’s not sleeping anymore, getting to his feet and stretching with a series of pops and crackles that sounds heavenly.  
  
“Tan-fucking-fastic. Mind mentioning to me what you did with my unmentionables?” I scratch the side of one of my boobs and re-scan the room. No battle-dress, helmet, or back-up back-up knife in sight. Damn. That’s going to hurt the wallet.  
  
“They were literally in shreds.” Mr. McSlash walks over to the kitchen, getting a clean-ish glass of water and a newspaper. “When I say that I mean they fell off of you while I carried your up the stairs. There’s nothing left of your clothes, unmentionable or otherwise.” He hold both glasses out to me.  
  
I take the larger one and start quaffing water. “Welp, in that case could I trouble you to take a rock across town in less than, say an hour? I just need to nip by my apartment-”  
  
He tosses the newspaper at my chest and once again the not-quite-controlled reflexes kick in and I catch it before the impact. “You wouldn’t happen to live on Rose and Fifty-Third, by chance?”  
  
I take a look at the headlines. A bombing. My apartment building. Of course. “I think that may have taken out my store of merch. Don’t suppose you accept payment in hardy handshakes?” Along with my spare costume and extra weapons, or at least the easily-accessible ones. Still a few storage sites dotted around the city, but whoever Ravager paid to thinker me is probably good enough to get those too. If they left one intact, I’ll eat my ears.  
  
“You know you really don’t have to pay me?” He’s rummaging around in the suitcase, picking up garments and discarding them. “I’m still new to this whole ‘hero’ thing, but I’m pretty sure doing it for money is kind of not the point.”  
  
“Fish gotta swim, mouse gotta eat, and for that I need the cheddar.” The crowdfunding site and leaderboards will pay out in a few weeks, but until then I’m basically destitute. Great. “I prefer to think of it as harvesting good will.”  
  
Cut al Stab gives me a non committal grunt, then pulls off his mask and extends a hand. “Jack. Don’t have a last name or a cape name yet.”  
  
I take his hand and give it a quick shake, assessing the amount of pain the action leaves me in and comparing it to the other times I’ve lost a fight with Ravager. “Mouse Protector, AKA Karrin Lebewitz. Normally I don’t go this far on a first date, but I may have taken a few too many shots to the head to think straight.” Probably going to be laid up for a week or so, getting my gear back together is going to take twice that at least, call it a month’s downtime if I start working again before I’m fully healed?  
  
Props to him, he only gives my rack a passing glance at the comment. He coughs politely and turns to the side, gesturing at the nearly-empty flat. “Anyway, this is my place. You’re welcome to take the run of it, raid the fridge, whatever. Feel free to stay as long as you want.” He glances at a clock and grimaces, bending down by the suitcase to grab a pair of jeans and a shirt. “I’ve got work. If you need to go out just lock up behind you, a spare key’s under the mat. You’re welcome to whatever clothes I have, just wash them after you’re done.” He heads out the door without so much as a wave.  
  
I blink.  
  
This guy just left a cape alone in his flat. His unlocked flat, with what little he owns in plain sight.  
  
“Is he stupid?” I ask the empty room.  
  
I don’t get an answer.  
  


* * *

  
  
Four hours later and I’m bored out of my mind.  
  
I ate some of what was in the fridge (mostly almost-expired vegetables and meat, the latter of which I didn’t touch), explored the whole twenty-by-ten expanse (measured by laying down and counting the number of Karrins from each wall to the other), tried on all of his clothes (too curvy for the jeans, but the tee shirts and boxer briefs fit well enough), explored his bathroom (toothbrush and no shampoo), found his stash of weapons and spare costumes (a whole lot of knives and trashed clubbing gear), and currently have no idea how this guy hasn’t gone nuts.  
  
Capes have problems, and a good way to deal with them is to cut loose and do something cathartic with regularity. Work hard, play hard and all that, with a side order of neurotic adherence to theme. Meanwhile, this guy doesn’t have so much as a paperback, and if that’s not a warning sign nothing is. Either he’s got something fucked in his head that makes him okay with living a life sterile enough that a monk would tell him to visit the town wench or he’s heading towards a mental break.  
  
I do another lap of the room, searching for some sign of a personality. There’s no particular theme among the spare costumes, and his selection of blades is extremely clinical. A few meat cleavers, some more stabby types, two Exacto knife with custom blades from what I think is probably a diamond-edged circular saw, and one fancy gravity knife that looks like it cost a mint. It’s shiny enough that I can see the bags under my eyes in the blade, and after I yawn for the third time in five minutes I realize that maybe ‘bored’ actually means ‘tired’. Seems unfair that doing _nothing_ has worn me out, but it’s also unfair that Ravager gets to scrape people and watch them split in half over the course of a day, so there’s the world for you.  
  
I go back to the bed, toss a charged knife under a scattered shirt, and snuggle under the blankets, waiting for the nightmares to take me.  
  


* * *

  
  
After reacting to the hand on my shoulder with a teleport, I remember that I’m sleeping in someone else’s bed, and that attempted murder is typically a bad response to being woken.  
  
For a solid tens seconds we stare at each other, blades in hand, in little more than our underwear. Now that I can get a good look at his face I notice the stress lines, the bags so dark they look tattooed on, and an exhaustion that makes me think that he really doesn’t take any days off. It’s a look I see in some of the more desperate tinkers, and not one I particularly appreciate.  
  
He breaks eye contact first, motioning at the table with his knife. “I got Thai food.”  
  
I drop my arm to my side and put on a smile. “I did knot expect to have a good meal today. Thank you.” Some of the boxes are open already and the scent of pork fills my nose. A growl comes from my stomach.  
  
“That pun was pretty bad.” He smacks his lips and yawns. “Anyway, I need sleep and already ate, so help yourself. Pack up the leftovers, throw them in the fridge, and we can talk more in the morning.” Without further ado he falls into bed, knife still in hand, and in seconds I can hear him snoring.  
  
I look to the knife in my hand, then to him.  
  
An absolute idiot.  
  
Then I head over to the table of take out and chow down.  
  


* * *

  
  
“We need a plan.”  
  
“I’m not really a-”  
  
“If you quote the Joker I’m stabbing you.” We’re eating some pan-seared ground beef in potatoes (the former tastes a lot like styrofoam and the latter has the consistency of rubber cement, but it’s basically edible) and staring at each other across the table. “When I said plan I meant more like something I can do to get access to money and clothes again.”  
  
“You don’t have to-”  
  
“Yes, I do,” I interrupt. “I don’t know what your day job is, but it’s barely enough to make rent as-is. Another hungry mouth isn’t going to make things easier, and I’ve got more than a few nest eggs scattered about. I need to get some gear back together and rebuild my life.” I put down my fork. “Do you have a library card?”  
  
“No.” He looks up at me, confused. “Why would I?”  
  
“Free computers.” Oh boy, we really are starting from square one. “That’s how I get a replacement debit card, buy things like swords without setting off all sorts of alarm bells, and stay in the loop on all things capery.” I stare at him. “How long have you been a part of the scene and how do you not know this stuff already.”  
  
“I’ve had powers since I was a kid, and I think my lack of knowledge is mostly because I don’t have the papers I’d need to, y’know, open bank accounts.” He shoves another forkful of food into his mouth. “I’ve got a recognizable enough face and sketchy enough past that I really can’t ask for a new social security number, and that means scut work, shitty pay, and no fancy computer stuff.”  
  
I stare across the table. “And you’re an indie hero?”  
  
He shrugs. “I try really hard to be.”  
  
I shake my head slowly. “Okay, so after I get my life together the two of us need to talk about getting you into the system. Unless you’re literally a traitor I don’t think that they’d turn you away at City Hall, not if you have a power.”  
  
He smiles tightly. “Trust me, they would. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s worse. Way worse.”  
  
I keep my skepticism to myself and go back to eating. “Anyway, what’re the chances of me getting some sweats, shoes, and a shirt that fits?” A bra would be nice too, but those are expensive and I’m ninety percent sure that if I sent him out with measurements he’d screw it up anyway.  
  
“Tomorrow after I get back from work.” He picks up his plate, utensils, and glass and heads behind me over to the sink. “After that it sounds like you’ve basically got things under control. Give me a heads up if you think anything big and murder-y is coming, but other than that the door is always open.” We do dishes silently, then sleep in the same tiny bed, as was the norm after we both ended up on the same sleep schedule. He makes for a really bony body pillow, but it’s easier than switching nights on the floor.  
  
Plus, we’re both adults. We can handle it.  
  


* * *

  
  
“So.” I’m standing at Jack’s door, a duffle bag hanging off of one shoulder and dressed in clothes that actually fit. Small miracle, that, and I made sure to grab the receipt so I’d know how much to pay him back.  
  
“You’ve been a pretty tolerable house guest, and if you ever need back up you know where to find me.” Jack sticks out a hand, smiling. The bags under his eyes haven’t gotten any better, and if anything he seems even leaner than he was when I arrived. Probably cutting down on the calories to make ends meet.  
  
I take it, give the limb a hearty shake, and don’t let go. “Well it’s been great staying with you old chappie old pal! Say, once I get my feet back under me mind letting me take you out for a meal? Settle a little of the debt I owe you and all that and don’t bother arguing, I’m sure you’ll need the chow and I’ll need the company!”  
  
Jack opens his mouth. I clamp down on his hand. He closes his mouth.  
  
Good boy.  
  
I’m moving shortly there after. I have a meeting with a real estate agent, my lawyer, and my favorite arms dealer, in the reverse order. I’m going to need to get out of town for a while, gather some resources, maybe a few allies, and then I’m going to come back here and _rip Michelle’s fucking spine out_.  
  


* * *

  
  
It takes a few months for me to get back to Jack.  
  
“Food?” I ask, two pizzas in arms, dressed in full regalia. Black now, not brown, with more modern armor and shinier metal.  
  
Jack blinks blearily, dressed in nothing more than a stained tank top and boxers. After a second he backs and motions to the table, stumbling over to a chair and flopping down in it, flipping the fancy knife in one hand.  
  
“Nice to have you here.” He waves his knife as himself, little waves of black hair falling from his face with every stroke. “Sorry I’m not in better shape, it’s kind of-”  
  
“Late for you, yeah I know. One o’clock in the morning tends to be like that.” I toss the cardboard boxes onto the table, then drop my duffle bag on the floor. “Top pizza is pepperoni, bottom is veggies. Hungry?”  
  
He opens a box, makes four quick motions, then pulls a slice out, chowing down with all the grace and dignity of a starving wolf. Once he’s part way through his third slice I start my spiel.  
  
“So, let’s cut to the chase. What say you and I start a team?” I throw in a grin, some spread arms, and try to push out as much charisma as I can.  
  
Jack looks at me, chewing slowly. Then he swallows and shakes his head. “I’ve tried a team. It didn’t go so well. Sorry.”  
  
I tilt my head. “This have anything to do with why you’re not working with the white hats?”  
  
Jack nods, grabbing another piece. “Something like that.”  
  
I make a mental note to look into explosive team breakup in the relatively recent past. “Welp, there’s always time to start again. And a place! I’m currently chilling in Austin, and while my room would be a little cramped with the two of us, it’d still be nicer than this.” I pause, then hold up a hand reassuringly. “No offense though.”  
  
“Nah, I live in a hole,” Jack says, starting on the last of the pepperoni. “It’s my hole though.”  
  
I shrug. “Well, my hole could become your hole as well. And if location is not a big deal, what about people? With due respect, we’re way out in the burbs here. It’s really the kiddy pool, and if you catch a flight out of here you can probably find some bigger game than the occasional mugger.”  
  
Jack winces. “I’ve fought bigger game.”  
  
I nod. “In that case you’re probably painfully aware of just how many people need some justice applied directly to the knee with as much force as parahumanly possible. Also, did I mention you could be paid?”  
  
Jack sighs. “I told you, I’m not-”  
  
“Heroing for the money, yeah yeah no one is,” I interrupt shaking my head. “The Protectorate shells out more than crowdsourcing, and villainy done right pays better than both. That doesn’t mean you can’t take a few bucks willingly given though. The people on those sites aren’t trying to suck the soul out of wearing funny costumes and beating each other up. They’re trying to make sure the good guys win.” I rap my forearm. “Gear paid for by ordinary people, protecting ordinary people.”  
  
Jack looks at the armor, then at me. “Thanks for the food, but if you’re going to try to get me out of my house, I think it’s time for you to leave.”  
  
I huff, standing up. “Well, I gave you enough chances. If you ever want to join my team again, you’re going to have to do a dance. With every other member of the team looking on. And you have to take off your shirt.”  
  
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind. Take care of yourself, Karrin.”  
  
“You too, Jack,” I say quietly. Then I pop out of existence, leaving the duffle bag behind.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Down!” I shout, popping out beside Crazy Eight and pulling her to the ground. An invisible beam of heat passes through the air above us and melts through a car, lighting the gas tank on fire and slagging the engine block into an unrecognizable mess. It doesn’t blow up though, and after a second I let out a breath of relief.  
  
Small mercies.  
  
“Did you tag him yet?” Eight asks, looking up at me through her multi-suit mask. Her right arm is a melted mess, the tech slagged together and probably useless, but her voice is still frustratingly calm.  
  
“Nah, been a bit busy trying to keep Dreamy alive,” I comment, peeking out from behind the car. This is the wrong fight for us for a whole lot of reasons. Eight’s good at shooting around armor, not through it, Dreamy needs time to get his snooze rolling, and I work best against people I can close the distance with.  
  
“Listen, I just want Mouse. Give her up and we can put this all behind us.” Eclipse steps forward, pitch-black foot melting a print into the pavement and expression unreadable in her breaker state. A defense that eats Eight’s shots like they’re nothing, apparently ignores Dreamy’s sleep effect, and the area around her would roast me after more than a few seconds. A perfect counter to my particular group of parahumans. How does Ravager find these clowns?  
  
“Protectorate’s ETA is four minutes,” Eight adds, pulling a few latches on her arm. The slagged metal detaches, taking a whole lot of material with it and leaving only a skeletal framework behind. I’m not sure how many more tricks she has up her sleeve, but I’m pretty sure none of them actually beat being as hot as a sun.  
  
“You break left, I’ll break right.” I’ve still got a lot of tags lying around, and I can probably buy enough time for the white hats to show up.  
  
Eight nods, assuming a sprinter’s stance. “I’ll pull Dreamy out. Don’t die.”  
  
I blow a raspberry. “Me, die? Now that’s crazy talk. On mark. One, zero, mark.”  
  
I flicker out of cover into the middle of the field right next to a marked rock and point my sword at roughly where I think Eclipse would be. “Now, you rat-scallion, if it’s a fight you... want...”  
  
I lower my sword and stare at the naked woman standing in the middle of the street, her hands raised and a line of blood on her cheek. Bald as a ping-pong ball, more than fit, and sporting a murderous frown that’s for once not aimed at me. I turn to follow her gaze.  
  
Jack cleans up nicely. The billowy shirt and tight red pants give him a romantic air, emphasizing his grace while downplaying his weediness and drawing attention away from the belt of knives at his waist. He’s braided his hair and grown out his beard to something ridiculous, committing to the Edward Teach look with a black Zorro mask that does nothing to disguise a wide smile. The combat boots are a little out of place, but the matching colors help it flow into the pants and his spinning knives seem less like murder weapons and more like gimmicks.  
  
Damn I do good work.  
  
“What took you so long?” I grouse, throwing up my arms in mock exasperation.  
  
Jack shrugs, motioning to his chin with one blade. “I had to grow out some facial hair. That and scrape together enough money to travel.”  
  
I tilt my head. “I’m one thousand percent sure there was enough cash in that bag for a plane ticket. What took you so long?”  
  
He shakes his head. “I came to return the money. Also, airlines don’t take a pile of two-dollar bills as fare.”  
  
“A pirate and a camp hero. These are the idiots I get captured by,” Eclipse mutters.  
  
“Nah, _he’s_ the idiot you got got by,” I correct. “The Justice League was basically just running around and trying not to die until he showed up. Full credit to him”  
  
Both of Jack’s knives pause. “That name seems...”  
  
“Taken?” I smile. “Don’t worry, it’s totally different. We don’t capitalize all the letters so there’s no confusion.”  
  
“Idiots,” Eclipse says. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“You’ve done pretty well for yourself,” Jack says, looking around appreciatively at the warehouse which hosts Crazy Eight’s workshop, Dreamy’s permanent place of residence, my armory, and our general war room. A combination of tinkertech and anonymity keeps it hidden, along with more than a few quiet bribes to the local police.  
  
I shrug. “Eh, you ain’t seen nothing yet. We’ve got three whole rooms we could expand into, two of which we’re reserving for future members.”  
  
“About that,” he starts.  
  
I flop onto a couch, laying down lengthwise and pointing to a chair. “Work talk is done sitting down. The boss can lounge, the grunts sit.”  
  
Jack walks behind the chair and crosses his hands over the back of it, leaning forward. “I’ll join, with a few conditions.”  
  
Admittedly not the enthusiastic declaration of loyalty I was hoping for, but good enough. I roll over, looking up at him. “Lay ‘em on me.”  
  
He lifts his index finger. “First, I do as little public stuff as possible. I’m bad with people, worse when there’s a power imbalance. I’ll show up for team pictures and stuff, but I’m not doing interviews.”  
  
“Can do.” Well, can’t do, but I prefer more manpower to better PR game. I can always tell stupid jokes and earn the later back, while stupid jokes tend to make the former leave.  
  
He lift his middle finger. “Second, I want to stay out of the thick of the fights. I haven’t found a range limit on my power and I’m good enough to cut the wings off a fly at any distance it reaches. I’ll obey orders if push comes to shove, but I’m better as a skirmisher than a frontliner.”  
  
“So long as I’m calling the shots, you’ve got free rein.” It’s going to make splitting up the team awkward if he and I have to go into different groups, but that’s tomorrow’s issue. That, and maybe I can change his mind as the situation demands.  
  
His ring finger goes up. “Third, you never put me in charge of anyone.”  
  
“Turning down promotions already?” I tease, raising an eyebrow behind my mask.  
  
He shakes his head. “I’m serious. You give me any amount authority and I’m gone. I don’t even want to give advice. I abstain from every vote, defer every marketing decision, whatever. If it involves me in a position of power, consider it a no.”  
  
I eye him up. “You’re pushing back pretty hard.”  
  
He looks back. “Mouse, I’m not messing around.”  
  
For a long time the two of us lock gazes, both more than a little obscured by our masks.  
  
Then I sigh and throw up my hands. “Welp, you’re going to be a mook for your entire career. I hope you’re happy.”  
  
“Also you have to take the money back,” he adds.  
  
I pout. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to find ten thousand dollars in two dollar bills?”  
  
He stands back from the chair and spreads his arms. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to spend ten thousand dollars worth of two dollar bills?”  
  
“Go to a strip club!”  
  


* * *

  
  
I look at the group of parahumans arrayed around the table before me. Psychos, one and all, none with less than a year’s experience working with me, most with a few more than that pre-Justice League. I know them all by name, face, and preferred morning beverage, and I’ve done the whole ‘save your life you save mine’ thing with each of them. They’re misfits, from rich girls who got dealt a bad hand like Chandelier and Ionic to hobos that we stumbled across like Narcissus. Each one’s an anti-social fairly-violent off-their-rocker adrenaline junkie, and half of them have played both sides of the good/bad chasm without strong feelings either way. In any sane world, we’d all be locked up for the sake of public safety  
  
It’s a miracle we haven’t killed each other by now.  
  
“Four-score and seven years ago, I had a dream,” I start, dropping my fist into my open palm.  
  
“Was it about me? I tend to have that effect.” Narcissus asks idly, examining their nails as if they doesn’t have a care in the world. They’re wearing a top that shows off a lot of décolletage and hotpants today, and I catch the glance they cast towards Jack. To be honest I expected them to split a few months after they joined, but apparently Jack hasn’t slept with them yet and the stranger isn’t leaving until they bag literally everyone on the team. I’d interfere, but frankly they’re a hell of a lay and mostly well-behaved with their come-ons.  
  
“A dream of a world where parahumans generally served the interest of the public, where the common citizen would look upon a figure in a silly outfit and laugh. I chose not to do it because it was easy but because it was hard, and while there have been bumps along the way I’d like to think we’ve done alright so far.”  
  
Dreamy holds up a piece of paper, his void-and-stars body exaggerating the drumming of his fingers in an attempt to make up for his lack of voice. _Is this going anywhere or are you just practicing for a surprise press conference?_  
  
“Unfortunately, I have not been entirely forthright with all of you,” I continue, beginning to pace. “While the core goal of the Justice League is to serve justice in all its many forms, I had a secondary objective.”  
  
“Money?” Chandelier asks, the single word more painful to listen to than nails on a chalkboard. Being made of glass does that. Then her form glows from the inside out, transforming into a figure made of rolling purple flames. “Power?” Ionic asks.  
  
I discreetly press a button on my presentation belt and the screen behind me flickers to life. “Ravager is a villain of some means in the wonderful town of Bumblefuck, Kansas. Her most famous rackets are mass electronic fraud, acting as a middle woman between numerous different criminal organizations, and littering. She’s also a more-than-unusually-disturbed murderer.”  
  
I click to the next slide, studiously facing away from it. I don’t trust myself not to do something stupid if I see Eli’s corpse again.  
  
Ionic burns up, transforming into Chandelier, who grits her teeth with a scrape of glass on glass. Crazy Eight and Jack are impassive as ever, but Dreamy jumps in his chair and Narcissus frowns, their angelic face lining with distaste.  
  
“That man is Eli Rosa, a nice boy whose only crime was being so loving that he invited a psychopath into our relationship.” The words come from the bottom of a well, echoey and distant. “Yes. Ours. This is personal. A number of things later and the three of us gained powers, which did not ends well.” Mechanically I take off my helmet, smile still in place. They’ve all seen my face before, learned my real name, but I’ve been pretty good at not talking about my past.  
  
Well, good about it until now.  
  
“This is revenge. I’d really, really like to pretend like it’s not, that I can justify this in some other way, but that’d be a lie. I want Michelle skinned alive, thrown into the dead sea, then eaten by whatever fucked-up aquatic tinker creations I can get my hands on. I’m not asking as Mouse Protector, because that would be a gross violation of the Justice League’s charter and mission. Instead I’m asking you as legally independent citizens and not-citizens to help me hunt down an old flame who killed the love of my life.” I click off the projector, smile still firm and wooden. “Now, whaddya say to some good ol’ fashioned manhunt?”  
  
There’s silence in the room.  
  
Chandelier is the first to push away. “No,” she whispers, hard and sharp. A burst of purple fire and Ionic is standing up. “Also no,” the other girls says. Her voice is different though, tinged with pity, and her shoulders are slumping when she walks out of the room. Dreamer’s gone not long after, not even bothering with a note.  
  
Jack gets up, closes the doors, then locks them. When he turns around, his face is very carefully blank. “I need you all to promise that what I’m about to say never leaves this room.”  
  
Narcissus raises an eyebrow. “I make no promises. I consider them unduly confining.”  
  
“I need more data,” Crazy Eight says, brow furrowing in confusion.  
  
“Sure.” When the other two capes look at me, I shrug. “I just confessed to wanting to murder and torture another woman in cold blood. Really don’t think he can top that.”  
  
Jack laughs humorlessly. “I can. I need your word. Please.”  
  
Crazy Eight pulls out a coin, then flips it. She conceals the result, then nods. Narcissus makes a show of mulling it over, then throws up their arms. “If you insist, Jack dearest.”  
  
He sits down at the table, completely across from me, and starts laying his weapons on the table. I count the number of knives I gave him in the duffle bag, then start counting the ones I knew he had before he joined the team, then count the blades that I have no idea where they came from. Throughout it all he keeps a perfectly neutral expression, one that looks nearly alien on him.  
  
“The Slaughterhouse Nine were a band of serial killers held together by Gray Boy, who nominally obeyed the orders of King, one of the few people who could endure his time loops,” Jack starts, picking up a rondel dagger, examining it carefully, then putting it down and moving to a clasp knife with a short, flat blade. “Most their public appearances involve mass slaughter for entertainment purposes, cruel and unusual torture for the sake of experimenting with powers, and casual murder of any and all parahumans who tried to stops them.  
  
Jack puts down his next blade and takes a deep breath.  
  
“I was a member of the Nine.”  
  
It gets worse from there.  
  


* * *

  
  
I pop into existence beside Alice. “Agent three to agent four, can you give us the go-ahead?”  
  
Alice looks at her mechanical palm. A seven comes up. “Fire at will.”  
  
I nod, then pop over to Jacob. He’s in a generic bodysuit, hood, and mask. I nod, and he looks out the window, a golden blade that he never uses without his power lifted and ready to strike.  
  
Tonight, Michelle dies.  
  
Alice is, in her own words, a ‘path’ tinker. She builds things with a specific idea in mind, and so long as she cleaves close to that idea it works out. In her case, that idea is randomness with a spread of exactly eight possibilities. This limitation kept her from making it into the big leagues with other teams, as she’d accidentally shoot her allies or rescuees a non-trivial amount of the time. We’re a little bit more creative than those dunderheads were, and she doesn’t have to worry about hitting anyone that doesn’t want to be hit these days. It’s hell to defend against, and she has enough variety that no matter what we can rely on her to probably have something that will help in any given situation.  
  
Her tech also has the side-effect of being literally unpredictable, in that we’ve yet to find a thinker who can guess where it’s going to hit next. She’s running control for this mission, keeping us safe from Ravager’s thinker power. Jamie has spent the past few days collecting data, and plan A was for them to slip into Ravager’s room late at night and stab her through the eye. That’s a no-go because of the palm though, and now I just sit and watch as Jacob lines up his shot.  
  
I amend my statement. Jack, the man formerly-known-as-Jacob, lines up his shot.  
  
After giving us the cliff-notes version of what an average day in the life of North America’s most famous group of murderhobos looked like, he explained very politely that he’d be in if I promised to just kill her and get it over with. No over-the-top revenge, no being handed over to a South American dictator for brainwashing, just a quick death. I mulled it over for a bit, then agreed, so long as he also thought about coming clean to the rest of the League. We sealed the deal with a spit-sodden handshake, Eight and Narcissus agreed to keep quiet until he was willing to share on his own, and now here we are, a pair of unassuming capes armed to the teeth trying to snipe a woman in her bedroom.  
  
There’s probably a joke in there somewhere, but for once I’m not in the mood.  
  
Jack’s arm blurs and he makes a small noise. “Got her. Neck cut through to the spine, vocal cords and several major blood vessels severed. Dead in less than a minute, and no one’s coming by to fix her in time. We’re done here.” The golden blade slips back into its handle and Jack starts pulling on regular clothes, concealing the bandolier of knives and becoming something like a regular person once more.  
  
I nod. “Telling the others.” I pop to Alice, do the secret anti-stranger handshake, dress in something less conspicuous with her, then pop over to where Jamie is waiting in disguise by Ravager’s apartment. My hands are shaking by then, hard enough that eventually Jamie just _tisks_ after I screw up the elbow bump for the third time and pulls me away from the scene of the crime.  
  
“Really, it’s like it’s your first assassination,” they say, flagging down a cab.  
  
I laugh at that, a little higher and louder than I expected it to be. “Maybe it is, did you ever consider that?” Jaime’s arm squeezes tights around me as we slip into the yellow sedan.  
  
From there, I sort of... zone out. I register getting back to our hotel, going up to Alice and I’s shared room, and laying down in bed. I’m not sure I remember sleeping, but at some point we get on a plane, fly back to Austin, and head to our HQ.  
  
There I lay down in bed and stare at the ceiling for a while.  
  
Michelle is dead.  
  
Eli’s not back.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Hey Mouse.”  
  
It’s Jack. Again. Every so often I register people coming into my room, bringing food with them. I shovel it down, listen to their pleas, give them a hug, then go back to sleep. Narcissus tried to join me one night, but after a few aborted attempts at making love they just started hugging me and didn’t let go until morning. They’re taking my withdrawal the hardest, I think.  
  
I should probably feel worse about that than I do.  
  
Jack sits down on the bed where I’m laying. “You know, we’re all really worried about you. Even Alice. I think you were one of the first friends she ever made as a cape. She’s trying to create a brain-reader, you know.” He laughed. “She thinks that if she just plays the odds long enough she’ll be able to bring you back.”  
  
I turn onto my side.  
  
A hand falls on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Dreamy won’t say it, but he’s thinking about leaving. Chandelier and Ionic too. They got the mission report afterwards, but I’m not sure they believe the three of us. If you can go up to them and talk for a bit, they’d probably stick around.”  
  
“I’m not forcing them to stay,” I whisper.  
  
“No one thinks you are,” he says reassuringly. “This wouldn’t be you imposing your will. It’d be giving them as much information as they need to make an informed decision.”  
  
“If they really wanted to be here, they wouldn’t need to hear me say it.” The words ring hollow though, and I curl up a little more. A mouse in a blanket. Cute, from a certain point of view.  
  
Jack stays there silently for a while, just rubbing my back. Then he stops, and I hear the _hiss_ of a carbonated drink opening up, then the _fizz_ of it being poured. A glass of green liquid appears in front of my face.  
  
“Pear juice. It’s good.” I sip it obediently. He’s right. When I finish my glass, he fills it up again, and again, and again until all I can taste is sweet and bitter.  
  
Eventually he either runs out of juice or gets tired of me and stands up, the bed springs creaking as his weight leaves them. “I’ll be back,” he says. I hear his steps go on, but he pauses at the door. “I’m thinking about inviting some to talk to you,” he says. “Someone with a fancy piece of paper that says they can make people feel better by talking. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“Okay.” The door opens and Jack leaves, making me alone again.  
  


* * *

  
  
When I roll over, the rest of the Justice League is arrayed before me in a semi-circle in plain clothes. Jamie is bouncing their leg endlessly and biting at a nail, Dreamy is so still you could mistake him for a hole to space, April and May are sitting silently in their chair, and Alice is shuffling a deck of cards impassively.  
  
I turn to Jack, who’s reclining in a chair next to my bed. “I thought you didn’t want authority.”  
  
“I don’t,” he says quietly, leaning forward and staring the floor between his feet.  
  
“It was actually me who organized this,” Jamie blurts out, standing up. They take a moment to smooth their clothes, compose themselves, then put on a brilliant smile. They’ve got breasts today, displayed by a white gown with a neckline that plunges to her waist. “While you’ve been recuperating, we’ve all been busy talking to the public, handling the accounting spreadsheets, all that grown-up stuff that you usually do. It was hectic for a while, but we’ve managed to get it under control after a few days. Anyway, nothing is broken, and if you want to step back into the group, you don’t have to be a leader anymore if you don’t want.”  
  
I stare at them, silent. After a few seconds Jamie’s smile drops. A few seconds after that it disappears completely. “Did I do something wrong?”.  
  
Alice does one last bridge, then slips the cards up her sleeve. “We would like you to rejoin patrols and events. Your absence is causing distress and decreased effectiveness.”  
  
There’s a clicking of pens. April and May are holding up index cards with their respective hands, April’s loopy and composed, while May’s is a little shakier. I know she’s still not used to writing left-handed.  
  
 _Can you please come back?_  
  
 _I miss you lots._  
  
I gather my blanket around me, fighting the chill. Once I’m good and comfortable, I look at Dreamy.  
  
“What changed your mind?” I ask. The words come out dead, sapped of energy and cheer.  
  
Dreamy shakes his head, two big motions that convey a more complicated idea than no. He spends a few seconds scrawling on a legal pad, then turns it around. I take it.  
  
 _I’m still not okay with unsanctioned murder. You are still wrong, and I believe that with every fiber of my being. However, I did some research on multitriggers, and have come to the conclusion that your judgement was impaired when you decided to pursue the course of action you did. So long as you, Alice, Jack, and Jamie all consent to have a day at court, I would be willing to re-enter your employ._  
  
I look up at him. I tear off the page, ball it up, then throw it at his head. He doesn’t move.  
  
“Fuck. You,” I whisper.  
  
Dreamy stays still for another minute, then gets up and leaves the room. I follow him with my eyes, then feel the sudden weight of three and two half gazes switch to me.  
  
I shiver.  
  
Damn blankets.  
  
Jamie sighs. Loudly. “Okay, so maybe Dreamy will take a little more convincing to bring around-”  
  
“Leave me alone,” I interrupt, laying back down and rolling over.  
  
“No.” This time Alice is the one to talk, and it’s almost surprising enough to make me roll back over. More pen clicking. “April says that she’ll drag you out of bed by force. May wants a hug.”  
  
I stay silent. There’s an awkward shuffling, two feet moving just out of sync with one another, and then the bed sinks as a new weight falls onto it. Two arms wrap around me, one gentle, one hard.  
  
“Bacghk.” The world is mangled, a collage of misstressed syllables and butchered phonetics. The result of years of practice, of a mutual trust and understanding that goes deeper than what any human should have to put up with. I’ve heard April and May speak all of three times in their meat bodies, and each time before now I’ve been sure to compliment them on it.  
  
This time I stay unresponsive.  
  
A whine starts up. Jamie. “Karrin, this really isn’t funny. Tell me what you want and we’ll make it happen. I promise.”  
  
“Don’t want anything,” I mutter.  
  
I feel a hand on my calf. “Nothing?” Jack asks.  
  
I shake my head. “Nothing. Killed Michelle. Eli’s dead. All done.” Ashes for miles in every direction.  
  
“Would you be willing to help out other people’s wants?” Jack starts rubbing my leg, a massage through the sheets. April and May tighten their grip again.  
  
I shrug against their arms. “Why not?”  
  


* * *

  
  
It takes some time to get used to peopling again.  
  
April and May are the easiest, to be honest. I crawl out of bed, get my face in order, then eat a bowl of cereal while the two of them have their sludge and make interested noises while they go through their homework. April’s naive enough to take this as genuine improvement, while May wants to save her sister as much pain as possible and will preserve the illusion if God themselves were to come down and try to break it.  
  
I can’t get a read on Alice. Never could, to be honest, but either she’s gotten even cagier or I’ve stopped lying to myself. One day she’s downright social, walking into my room to ask about my day in a stilted-but-probably-friendly way, the next I don’t see her at all, even if I leave to get food. Pretty sure she’s letting a die decide how she acts, but I’m also not certain that she’s doesn’t have feelings behind those brown eyes.  
  
Dreamy is still not on writing terms with me. We can stand in the same room and the lack of PRT breaking down the door to take me in means that he probably hasn’t told them about my trip to Bumblefuck, but there’s still tension. I’ll have to address that more completely, somehow, and in a way that lets him know that Michelle died of a ration decision, made with thought given to the law, and that I have no intention of being sorry for it. Not sure if he’s going to sick around long after that, but Dreamy’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions.  
  
Jamie... is still physical. Really physical. They’re toning it down though, hugs instead of kisses, winks and jokes instead of not-so-subtle flashing. It’s still doing nothing for me, might never do anything for me, but I make a show of giving them some feedback from time to time. I think they know that it’s an act on my part, an attempt to appease them rather than any actual arousal, but I think they’re trying to get it.  
  
Jack doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t show up when he’s not wanted, when he’s unneeded, or when things are going well enough. Instead there’s always a quiet knocking at the door, just enough to rouse me from my nightmares, and we split a bottle of pear juice in the dark. I think about asking him about how he dealt with the Nine, if it might’ve been anything like what I’m doing now, then push it to the side.  
  
No one want to win or lose a pity Olympics.  
  
It’s hard, tiring, and takes far longer than it should, but after a few months I open my closet. My armor’s still there, in all its functional and flashy glory, and the weapons are right where I left them. Well, my taser sword is where I left it. The guns and knives are all MIA, with maybe makes sense.  
  
I strip, put on the body-suit, then start donning my costume. It takes a while, more effort than I’m used to, and attaching only my sword to my belt makes me feel really under-equipped. For a second I just stand still, letting the weight of the gear hold me down, letting it ground me.  
  
“Jack dear, would be so good as to cut that crime spree short?” I mutter, then shake my head. Weak.  
  
“What dazzling insights do you have floral of us, Narcissus?” I shake my head again. I’ve overused the flower theme. Greek myths.  
  
“What are our odds?” I sigh, a small smile coming across my face. An oldie but a goodie, and Alice is unresponsive enough that I can just keep using it.  
  
“Chandelier, you clear out the riff-raff. After that Ionic can fire at will.” You’d think finding jokes about a pair of people made out of glass and spooky flames would be difficult, then you’d try to do it and realize that it’s actually impossible. Didn’t stop me, but goddamn.  
  
“Falling asleep on the job again, Dreamy?” This one leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I sigh, then spin around and head for the door.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Whaaaaaaat is up, my fellow Leaguers?” I shout, spreading my arms wide and putting on a dopey grin as I crash through the door to the war room.  
  
Reactions are mixed. April and May destroy their chair as they stand up in a blur of fire and glass, Alice levels her tinker armgun at me, and Dreamy and Narcissus duck behind a couch. Jack alone is unmoved, and he simply groans as he stares at his hand of cards.  
  
“I was going to win this round, you know?” He puts down the slips of paper and tugs on his mask, standing up.  
  
“No time for gambling, there’s crime to fight, children to cheer, and precious tween dweebs to turn from the path of villainy,” I proclaim, stomping towards the planning table as everyone else gets their bearing. “Now, what do I need to know about?”  
  
“The Bear Clan and the Elite are currently at war, two new parahumans have been spotted, and a member of the Protectorate recently went dark,” Alice says, mask slipping on over her face as her suit deploys over her. “Minor uptick in general crime, nothing large or consistent enough to be statistically significant.”  
  
“You’re back!” May shouts, glass tearing up beneath her form. April just nods, but I think I see a hint of a smile on her transparent face.  
  
“Not all the way,” I caution. “Enough to be Mouse, though. Say Narcissus, how’s your Harpocrates impression going?”  
  
Instead of an answer, I get a hug moving at roughly way to fast and a sucking nibble to the exposed part of my jaw. After wrestling them into an armlock, I look up at the rest of the room. “Okay, anyone a little less happy to see me?”  
  
Dreamy puts up his hand.  
  
I nod. “Figured.” Then I jerk my head towards my room. “There’s a letter there. Read it whenever. I don’t really want to talk about that stuff.”  
  
For a second I think he’s going to refuse and my smile gets even more brittle. If push comes to shove, I’m not sure I can actually hash it out with him, explain just what was between the three of us. I have no idea how the team would react to him splitting off, what he would do afterwards, and what that could mean for the future of the League.  
  
I don’t want to lose more friends.  
  
Dreamy looks around, scanning each person in turn. Then, slowly, he nods, standing up and walking towards my room. I watch him go, then turn back to the rest of my team, releasing Narcissus, who’s feeling a little less grabby as they shake out their arm.  
  
“Now, what little mouse traps do we have lying around?” I ask, clicking on the projector and looking at a map of the city, complete with unofficial territory boundaries, known criminal enterprises, and the most discreet take-out joints.  
  
Eight waves her hand at the screen and a bit of Elite territory lights up, magnifying into a street-level photo of a massage parlor. “I caught footage of Stag Lord entering the Rainbow Path a few weeks ago. We haven’t engaged yet in a desire to potentially acquire more information-.”  
  
“Eight, what have I said about playing it safe?” I chide, mentally reviewing the roster of the local Elite. I’m almost certain it’s changed by now, but from what I remember there’s no one that we literally couldn’t beat. Well, no one that we couldn’t beat without Dreamy covering the ‘actually invincible brute’ angle.  
  
“That it’s for losers and wimps?” Jack says sarcastically, flopping into a chair at the main table.  
  
I nod serenely. “Exactly. Now, game plan. What are we dealing with, what’re our goals, and what’s the worst-case scenario?”  
  
Alice starts rattling off facts, Ionic and Chandelier ask questions, and Narcissus add their own flirting laced with insights. Jack keeps things moving smoothly, and after a few minutes Dreamy comes back into the room. He’s more withdrawn than normal, but he does engage in the conversation, at least from a nuts and bolts of combat perspective. I catch him angling towards me from time to time, but he always turns back to the group when I start looking back.  
  
After about an hour, I nod at the heavily marked-up projector. ‘“Okay, so we’re settled on a plan then?”  
  
Ionic nods. “Frontline,” she says before burning into Chandelier.  
  
“Jack and I will provide ranged support in an attempt to delay reinforcements” Eight says, nodding across the table to the man in red.  
  
Dreamy holds up his legal pad.  
  
 _Narcissus and I will make contact with the PRT after the battle has begun, then attempt to infiltrate Erolking Industries after we see Gazerlaw leave and receive the go-ahead from Eight._  
  
I clap my hands and shoot both teams finger guns. “And when things go wrong?”  
  
“Get the fuck out,” Jack, Narcissus, and Eight say with varying degrees of enthusiasm, while Dreamy and Chandelier just nod in agreement.  
  
I snap off a mock salute. “See you in the field.” Then I pop away to the rooftop to start preparing the Mousecanon for cross-city travel.  
  
As I prep the air gun, I let the smile drop away from my face. The League isn’t going to replace Eli. I hope they don’t replace Michelle. Even after putting on the face I don’t feel like Mouse. The edge to my jokes is gone, the bits that made them bite, and I have no idea how that’s going to translate to an actual combat scenario.  
  
I tag a Mouse Protector-brand tee shirt, aim it roughly in the right direction, and fire, watching the tiny object disappear into the distance. I respond to sudden events the best. It took a lot of trial and error to figure that out, but if there’s no panic I’m not at the top of my game. Is jumping right into the deep end after a way-too-long hiatus a bad idea? Probably, but also probably not worse than trying to slowly charge up when I really need is a lightning bolt to the system.  
  
I hear the roar of a magical fire-powered motorcycle, the quiet hum of Eight’s randomobile, and the banal _woosh_ of an entirely mundane car carrying Dreamy and Narcissus. For a brief moment I just enjoy the sounds, a calm before the chaos, the space just before shit hits the fan.  
  
“Time to show those filthy bougies what for,” I mutter. After mulling it over, I shrug. “Eh, good enough.”  
  
Then my belt buzzes and I pop off into the great unknown.


End file.
